


Landing

by gabolange



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-25
Updated: 2010-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabolange/pseuds/gabolange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when your life returns?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landing

**Author's Note:**

> Written at the end of season two; season three speculation.

How do you greet the man who is not yet your lover, only recently your closest friend, and again the savior of your race?

How do you explain that the time without him has been difficult for all the wrong reasons? That the Cylons were bad and the mud was worse. That you have been cold and tired and wet and could only look to the sky and pray to Gods you only sometimes believe in that he would return because his grimace would brighten the dank, dark, terrible days more than anyone else's grin.

Do you put out your hand for the formal welcome everyone would expect? Do you shake his hand and look him in the eye and say, "Admiral" a little coyly so no one else can hear the lilt in your voice? You could, just to see the glint in his eye and the slight quirk of his mouth that lets you know he is as happy to see you as you are him.

You could avoid the crowds altogether, and wait for the hubbub to die down. You know Starbuck will be at the head of the crowd, loud and angry and then so quiet as she greets her surrogate father again. She would pass on any information you could want, and you could see him in private, later. But with Baltar dead and the Cylons fleeing, you are again the appointed leader of your people, and to miss the welcoming ceremony for the ragged fleet would smack of willful ignorance.

The crowd will throng, and you will be at the head of it, flanked by his almost-daughter and his best friend. Her husband is dead, his wife abandoned to corruption and alcohol. You have lost so much less. But you stand to gain so much more.

Do you throw yourself into his arms, paying no heed to propriety? The crowd might cheer its leaders, but then it would murmur about presidential impropriety and sex scandals and rip itself apart with gossip. You never slept with him when you were president, and afterwards you moved out and down to the dirty planet because you were told you must. You never slept with him then, either, but you know you would've if given another chance.

You wonder what would've happened if the Cylons had stayed away.

You don't have time to choose. You brush dirt out of your hair and wonder if he will notice the extra gray at your temples or the new wrinkles at your eyes. Occupation has made you older than you were, but stronger, too. Teaching unruly, cold, scared children will change a woman. So will living apart from all you know.

But you put on your wrinkled suit and listen for the raptor's engines over the cheers of the people you lead. You don't notice as they smile at you, whisper among themselves about how good it is to see you looking like you did when you took over for the first time, so long ago. You don't notice that their cheers are not only for the ships that kick up dirt as they land.

His son steps out first, looking tired and worn and not at all like the handsome man you used to tease about his call sign when he was new at saving the world. Captain Apollo – Commander Adama — scans the crowd and settles his eyes on Starbuck – Kara Thrace-Anders, no call sign now – and you can't help but see this awkward reunion of lost souls. You could listen, but you watch instead as her eyes blaze from behind her hair and as his jaw sets just like his father's would. You would wonder if there's any hope for them, except you can see the reconciliation in their eyes, hiding behind the hurt and fear, and you know that when they are past the crowds and the memories, they will find each other.

And then there is cheering and hollering and you see him from the corner of your eye, and there is a glint in his eye that reminds you how much he hates ceremony. You smile then, that smile that those who know you have missed in the last few months, the one that can soothe fears and break hearts and means that for the first time in months you might be happy.

And then he is clapping Tigh on the back, and seeing the sadness and terror behind Starbuck's stare and holding her close for an extra moment before giving his son a glare that could mean everything and anything. And then your eyes are on him and his are on you and your smile is a little shy. You put out your hand and say, "Admiral."

And it would be coy, but he takes it softly and says "Madam President" before meeting your eyes.

You do not cry, though the photographic stills produced later will tell a different story. Neither does he. There is silence as you stare at him and he looks back, more sanguine than you feel. He pulls on your hand and you follow it, finding yourself in his arms as he whispers "Laura" into you hair.

And you hold on for dear life, because you have been cold and tired and wet but looked up at the stars every night to pray this for this moment. The masses cheer, and there are whispers that will turn to gossip, but later you will only remember the feel of his hand in yours as you turned away from the crowd.


End file.
